


one wrong, two rights

by hellebored



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Found Family Feels, Gen, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-25 03:44:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14968388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellebored/pseuds/hellebored
Summary: Sometimes forgiveness shows up at the door in the form of a rain-soaked Waverly Earp and begs to be let in.Rosita-centric, post season 2/canon divergent from season 3.





	one wrong, two rights

The bucket in Rosita’s kitchen is halfway filled with dripping rainwater when Waverly Earp shows up on her porch, knocking on the door like a cute little rain-drenched missionary and not the woman who’d tried to shoot her between the eyes almost a half a year ago.

Rosita peers through the keyhole. She's been laying low, moving from one garbage heap of a place after another in an attempt to stay off Wynonna's radar. Looks like the luck's run out, and all that's left to do is take the shotgun down off its shelf.

 _Not that it’ll do much good_ , she thinks, cocking it before she lets the door open enough to point her gun through.

From Waverly’s wide-eyed expression, she’d heard the heavy click of the gun through the flimsy particle board that passes for a door in this shithole, but she stands there anyway, fingers twisted together in front of her.

“Hi, Rosita,” she squeaks out.

Rosita exhales and leans against the doorframe. “If it isn’t the only Earp who’s failed to send me back to hell,” she says through a tight jaw.

She peers out into the ragged yard; her eyes scan the bushes and the car parked twenty yards out. There’s nothing there but some bluejays and a couple dumb squirrels fat from the birdseed she knows better than to buy and does anyway. “Where’s your sister these days?”

“Not here,” Waverly says, a little evasively. “She’s… not coming. Just me. Look, can we...talk? Just, y'know, woman-to-woman?”

“We can talk from here,” Rosita says, patting the barrel of her shotgun.

Waverly’s hands raise slowly. “I’m not here to fight,” she says, palms out. “I just came to tell you...we’ve called off the proverbial dogs. You can come home.”

Unconsciously tightening her grip on the gun, she narrows her eyes and flatly says, “Home? You mean where everybody treated me like an outsider even before you knew what I was? Where your sister and all your friends called me stupid and didn’t even give enough of a shit to do it out of earshot? Where you tried to _kill_ me? Not much of a home.”

Waverly takes a breath and straightens out the shoulders that had curled inward like Rosita’s words were a raised hand, and Rosita wonders, not for the first time, what sort of whip had been used on this girl when she was young, and whether it was an actual whip or just lashing tongues. Or maybe the weight of being brushed aside, forgotten in the shadow of her sister’s monumental degree of crazy. Wherever it comes from, it’s annoying, and the tiny spark of empathy tugging at her heart’s annoying too.

“We messed up,” Waverly says, raising her chin. “But… I’m _here_ , and I’m trying to make it right.” She fumbles with a pocket of her soaked jacket and pulls out a small box wrapped in a ribbon that’s started to bleed from the rain. “This is from Wynonna.”

Rosita looks at Waverly’s outstretched hand for a moment and then slowly sets her shotgun down. The tiny box is surprisingly heavy in her hand. Tugging off the ribbon, she thumbs off the lid, and her heart stutters in her chest, _hard_ , the way it’s felt every time it’s stopped.

She gives a mirthless huff and lifts the contents free, shining and silver in her hand. A bullet, etched with her name on the side.

“Cute,” she says flatly. “I’m a little surprised she didn’t come to deliver it herself.”

“There’s a note,” Waverly says anxiously, unfolding her shivering arms long enough to point at the box still clutched forgotten in Rosita’s grip.

On a closer look, Rosita sees a curled slip of a yellow post-it in the box, and words written in Wynonna’s scrawling hand.

 _You can keep this one. I won’t be needing it._  
_\- W_

It’s the most _extra_ thing Rosita’s ever seen from an Earp, and that’s saying something.

“Trust Wynonna to make even an apology sound threatening,” Waverly says, shrugging sheepishly and trying to break up the silence around Rosita’s open-mouthed shock.

“Why?”

“Well, you _did_ kinda try to kill me and take her baby to be torn apart by the angry mob of your brethren chilling outside the door. Aggressively chilling, you know, like Beauty and the Beast style, complete with pitchforks. And guns. And a couple two-by-fours.”

Rosita’s lips twist at Waverly’s compulsive blabber. She’s got no filter. It’s no wonder she couldn't stop herself from blabbing the truth about what Rosita is with the way things just fall out of her mouth.

 _Can’t say you didn’t have plenty of warning there_ , she thinks, and toys with the old thought that maybe she should’ve let Tucker have his way, but just like always she knows that was never an option. Not even now, knowing how things would play out. Maybe no good deed goes unpunished, but she can’t hold that bitterness up to the warmth of Waverly’s open face without it melting away.

“No,” she says through a strange tightness in her throat. “I meant… why are you _here_? Why _this_?”

Waverly watches the jerking motion Rosita makes to indicate the note in her clenched fingers.

Waverly shrugs, looking uncomfortable.

“I know you didn’t mean it,” she says softly, eyes cast down. “What you did. You were scared.” She lifts her eyes to Rosita’s like she’s searching for confirmation, and gives a hesitant smile. “Maybe if we’d been a little bit nicer. We _should’ve_ been nicer. I was so... _so_ angry, and hurt, and then I heard what Wynonna said to you and it was all my fault because I told her you’re a Revenant and I didn’t mean to but Nicole was dying and I was so, _so afraid_ of losing her and...it’s my fault. I pushed you over the edge and I’m _sorry_ and I’m gonna fix it. I'll make things right."

Waverly nods, and keeps nodding, a little bit like a bobble-head doll, and Rosita can’t help the way it makes her want to laugh: the way Waverly looks so earnest, and miserable, and hopeful and sad. There are tears in her eyes, and it looks like forgiveness.

There are tears in Rosita’s eyes too, and her face hurts from the effort of keeping them back. “I’m sorry too,” she manages to squeeze out, and suddenly Waverly’s arms are around her, giving her a waterlogged hug that seeps through her shirt.

“Sorry,” Waverly says, pulling away, and laughs. “Sorry again. For the hug. The _wet_ part of the hug.”

“It’ll dry,” Rosita mutters, and rubs at her eyes.

Waverly folds her hands around herself, obviously cold, and then smiles at her shyly. “So. Are you gonna come back with me? Wynonna knows you’re here, so there’s no reason for you to stay in this shack, I mean, she could shoot you _here_ so you might as well come back. But she won’t shoot you. She promised.”

Rosita sighs, and nudges the door open all the way with her shoe. “Okay, I guess. Come inside before you turn into a prune.”

She picks up the shotgun after Waverly gratefully traipses in. She puts it back on the shelf above her coats and tries to still her shaking hands.

She might not make it out of the day alive, but for the first time in months the risk feels like it beats living in the shadows like a hunted animal.

—

Waverly takes her back to Shorty's and grasps her hand at the door.

“I’m right behind you,” she says, like that should be reassuring. It’s not, particularly. It’s especially not comforting when the only thing that can actually kill her is waiting inside.

Predictably, Wynonna’s at the bar. Her mouth tightens when she looks up and sees Rosita there, and then her eyes shift to Waverly.

“Scram,” she tells her sister.

Waverly narrows her eyes and puts her hands on her hips. “Fine. I’ll be in the other room, but you _promised_.”

“I know I did,” Wynonna says, smiling sweetly; she keeps it up while Waverly squeezes Rosita’s shoulder and exits the room, and then the veneer of pleasantry drops.

“She’s the only reason you’re not dead,” Wynonna says as an opener, somehow making the aggressive sloshing of what looks like whiskey in her glass seem like part of the conversation.

Rosita crosses her arms and tries to keep the irritation out of her voice. It’s mostly fear talking, and it’ll get her killed. “Nice to see you too, Wynonna.”

It comes out sounding bitchy anyway, and Wynonna smiles; she lets out a contented sigh, like this is going exactly like she’s expected it to go, and that more than anything else sets Rosita on edge.

Wynonna scoots back on the bar stool and pats the one beside her. “Waverly threatened me with bodily harm unless I gave you a second chance, so. Here we are. Sit. Let’s have a nice _chat_.”

“Think I’ll stand, thanks.”

She hugs her arms closer, trying to keep the tremble out of her chest. Wynonna’s change in posture had revealed Peacemaker next to the elbow she’s resting on the bar. “You planning on using that thing or is it just for decoration?”

Wynonna picks up her gun; opening the chamber, she turns it upside down and shakes it over the counter.

“Would you look at that,” she says with fake, mocking surprise when nothing falls out, “it must be your lucky day! There’s no bullet here for you.” She puts Peacemaker back down on the bar with a thump and smiles, wide and predatory. “Doesn’t mean I can’t _pistol-whip_ you with it and take the one I gave you back. I’m not gonna lie, it sounds kinda fun.”

 _You’re a bitch_ , Rosita wants to say, but she grits her teeth and thinks about hell, and the stiffness of anger drains out of her. No use for pride if she’s dead.

“Is this the part where I apologize?”

Wynonna, looking pleased, leans back against the bar. “That’d be a good fucking _start,_ ” she says conversationally.

“I’m sorry,” Rosita says, and it comes out sounding flat. Her fists tighten: so the anger’s still there after all.

A few seconds pass. Wynonna blinks. “That’s _it?_ That’s a _shit_ apology.”

Trembling words come out almost against Rosita's will. “You remember what you said to me, how you were going to save me for last? Like I should be grateful for your table scraps of decency even though I’d never done a _damn thing_ against you?”

Wynonna stares at her, and her mouth widens into a flat line.

“So I maybe shouldn’t have said that,” she says, softly. “That one’s on me. Now your turn.”

 _But you still would’ve been thinking it._ Saying that out loud would be as pointless as pointing out that the sky, due to the way light bounces off molecules in the atmosphere, appears blue. Instead, she clears her throat and says, “I wasn’t really going to give your baby to them,” like _that’s_ the right thing to say, which it’s immediately obvious it _isn’t._

Wynonna’s eyes snap up to her face. All the languorous catlike taunting falls away, replaced with the cold focus of something more like a snake.

“I don’t care what you were going to do,” she says caustically. “She was _mine_. And if you _ever_ threaten her or anyone else in my family _ever again_ , you’re gonna end up right back at the _top_ of my shit list. For good. _Forever_. All the future generations of Earps will hunt you down _first_.”

“And _there’s_ the Wynonna I know,” Rosita murmurs, curling and uncurling her fingers.

“Yeah, well. Had to get that out on the table,” Wynonna says, tapping her forefinger against her gun, just to make herself condescendingly clear.

Rosita looks up at the ceiling. This is so much harder than she’d thought it would be. She’s never stood before God, not with Peacemaker dooming her straight to hell, but if God even exists she imagines it must feel a little like this. Like standing in a room with somebody who holds your eternal fate in their hands and being found _wanting_.

It’s a lot easier to mouth off and go to hell, but hell _sucks_. And even more than that, there might be something here for her in this life if she can make it work. Maybe the heir’s a self-righteous bitch, but she’s a self-righteous bitch who hasn’t elected to kill her yet, and that’s _something_.

She sighs. It’s time to quit beating around the bush and actually talk about the shit she’s done, because it won’t get any better, and it won’t go away. Not until she’s forgiven. Maybe not even then.

“Look... I’m sorry. I didn’t really want to hurt you, but I thought it was you or me. I hope that… I hope your baby’s okay.”

“You wouldn’t be here right now if she wasn’t,” Wynonna snaps sweetly. She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “She’s safe. Somewhere _you_ , and the _rest of your kind_ , won’t _ever_ get to her.”

Rosita nods. So the baby made it out of the triangle. That’s probably for the best, away from her and _her kind_ , safe from her treachery and her fear. A weapon against her for another day.

Right now, just a baby. Just an innocent child.

“I _am_ sorry,” she says. “I really am.”

“Apology conditionally accepted,” Wynonna says evenly, and her face has gone soft and tired again, a vigilant wariness replacing the anger.

“Conditionally, huh?” Rosita says, because apparently she can’t help the sarcasm today, or ever. “Still gonna save me for last?”

“Nope,” Wynonna says, mouth popping around the _P_. “You’re safe from me until you fuck up, and then you’re _first_.” She slaps her palms against her knees and straightens. “I’ve seen enough of the past to know not everybody shot by Wyatt Earp deserves eternal damnation. It seems like he kinda screwed the pooch a couple times.” She gives an exaggerated shrug. “Maybe once I get around to permakilling Clootie’s ass I won’t have to shoot you. But, uh." She toys with the hem of her shirt, bunching it up and smoothing it out. "I wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on your _Revenant_ -ness, so. I figured you’d better come work for me. Jeremy could use the help in the lab. Consider it probation.”

Gaze averted, Wynonna almost looks embarrassed, and Rosita realizes this is part of her apology. 

In her right hand, in her coat pocket, her curled fingers rub along the bullet, along the etched groove of her own name.

“Not much of a lab,” she says finally.

Wynonna gives a huff of laughter.

“Revenants stuck in Purgatory can’t be choosers,” she says, and, hoisting herself up from the stool, takes a handful of bullets out of her jacket: one by one she feeds them back into Peacemaker, spins it shut, and drops it in her boot. It’s a wonder she hasn’t blown off her foot by now, but it _is_ a special gun.

A gun that chose not to kill a Revenant, once, even after the stupidest thing she’s ever done. Maybe that means something. She tries not to hope, because hope hurts, but it flares up inside her all the same.

Wynonna saunters forward and comes to stand in front of her.

“This doesn’t mean we’re friends,” she says, and there’s a coldness in it, a promise: but then she reaches out, and very, very awkwardly her hand hovers over Rosita’s shoulder. She taps it a single time like it might burn her, and gives a sharp nod that only serves to punctuate how completely hopeless she is at displaying any sort of affection.

She’s a lonely woman too, Rosita thinks. Tangled up in snarled wires of destiny, of responsibility; of being judge, jury, and executioner.

They're not so different, in the end.

Wynonna brushes past her.

“See you in the office Monday,” she calls over her shoulder.

“You gonna come looking for me if I don’t show?”

Wynonna pauses at the door leading out to the street and snorts. _“_ Don’t push your luck or I’ll have Dolls slap a tracking anklet on your demonic ass. _Probation_. _Monday_.”

Rosita smiles when the door swings shut, standing there alone and blinking back tears.

So maybe she won’t be able to keep this peace forever, but for now it’s hers, a chance to begin again. To be known and maybe, for a little while, even accepted.

She puts the bullet back in her pocket and curls her fingers around the slip of paper instead. It’s a start.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Look. I absolutely hate the way Rosita is treated through most of season 2. She’s trying her best and just wants to be appreciated and cared about, and instead people shut her out, ignore her, and ridicule her. I just want her to be loved, okay? 
> 
> Come yell at me on my [tumblr.](https://philosoverted.tumblr.com/)


End file.
